


Katabesis: the B-side

by grave_remarks, voices_of_salt



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, DnD writing, F/M, Orpheus and Eurydice, sort of? Orpheus is deffo the best musician in the land and Eurydice is a very devoted wizard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-12-07 13:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11624925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grave_remarks/pseuds/grave_remarks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/voices_of_salt/pseuds/voices_of_salt
Summary: Eurydice can't leave Orpheus on the other side of Death, so she goes to fetch him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Katabasis: A Duet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10498611) by [voices_of_salt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voices_of_salt/pseuds/voices_of_salt). 



 

     When the sun first rose on Simó’s corpse, it was under Garwhal’s watchful eyes. Gareth had left hours before, when she'd asked him to, exhausted by sitting straight and listening to how sorry he was. She didn't think she'd slept, seated at his side and watching the light change on the still lines of his face. It was better than looking at the raw patches of spellburn on his chest, where she'd poured all her power into a desperate, useless wish. Her ring glittered on his finger, warding off decay, and gleaming far too coldly next to his wedding ring.

      “Mora.” Cecilia’s voice sounded, impossibly, wearier than Garwhal felt. She looked over, and could barely see Cecilia for herself. In the morning sun, it was so obvious how  Simó came by his cheekbones. It deepened the pit in her chest, but she didn't have any more tears at the moment.

      “I'm sorry,” Garwhal said, words heavy in her mouth and Yonec’s teachings in her mind, “I'm monopolizing him.” Of course his mother would want time with his remains, and she stood to give them privacy. Cecilia sighed, the sound coming from somewhere primal, and she caught Garwhal’s hand as she went.

     “You don't have to go.” Maybe not, but Cecilia deserved a quiet moment with what was left of her son, to keep her own vigil.

      “The bruixes’ll lay him out this evening.” Cecilia said, grief leeching at her voice until it was barely more than a whisper. Something feral flared in Garwhal at the news. They would take him, place him at the entrance to their catacombs, the first of those final steps, and Garwhal felt a helpless snarl curl her lips. It was the right thing, how they'd care for him. It was even what Simó would want. And all of that crashed against the helpless fury at the idea of letting _anyone_ put her husband in the ground.

     It was impossible to verbalize, and all the ways she could have tried caught in her throat. Yanking her hand free of Cecilia’s, she rushed from the room.

     The halls of Villa Riera had become a second home to her, over the years, and she could navigate easily it, without thought or purpose. She didn't see anyone as she went, and the usual sounds were made dim and distant by grief.

      Her footsteps took her to Simó’s rooms, because of course they had. It was the heart of Villa Riera for her, with the desk she'd colonized, his guitars and the breeze flowing in from the balcony. The door had been closed most of the way, and she leaned against the doorframe to steady herself. The idea was unbearable, that the room would stay empty, maybe for years, and then be settled by some new Riera.  It seemed a double betrayal, that he wasn't there, and then that someone would be able to live in his rooms, unbothered by his absence.  

     She slipped inside, and it was as horrible as she'd feared. There was something missing, more than just his physical presence, like a reverberating chord had been stilled. Her head ached, and she wished for the bottle of anisette he'd kept in one of his guitar cases, even though he'd abandoned the practice years ago.

      Prudència was there, drawn up into a little ball on the chair by the desk, face pressed against her knees. Garwhal hadn't realized this could hurt _more,_ but there was strong, clever Prudència mourning the loss of her favourite cousin.

     And maybe there could be comfort in that,  cold and meager, but comfort nonetheless. A reminder of how deeply Simó was loved, how his absence was an even deeper wound. She wasn't sure- there was still a howling in her, raging that the cosmos had dared separate them, and had seen fit to shrug off her demands for his return. It was something she was studiously not feeling, the sort of mental tempest she weathered in Simó’s arms. Without him, it felt insurmountable, so it was better to close it off as much as possible.

      But maybe, her and Prudència could be heartbroken together, and maybe that would help, without needing to dive to the bottom of the pit that Simó’s death had hollowed out in her.

      “Hi.” Garwhal tried, words scratching at her throat. The sound stirred Prudència, who peeked up, red eyed, at her. They stared at one another for a long, horrible moment, before Prudència’s shoulder’s started shaking, and she ducked her head to wipe away the fresh tears on her black-clad knees.

     Years ago, Garwhal would have been hesitant and awkward, she knew, if she'd even dared to hug the other woman. It wasn't entirely because of Simó she'd moved beyond that, but he'd played a part. Crouching beside the chair, she wrapped her arms around Prudència, leaning her cheek against the top of her head.

      Prudència leaned into the contact, a sob shuddering out of her, so great it was nearly silent. They stayed like that for a while, Garwhal wondering if she had any tears left, if Prudència would lend her some.  Eventually, Prudència shifted, and Garwhal let her go, rocking back on her heels to give her some space.

   She was trying to look just at Prudència, to avoid seeing the rest of the room. Just yesterday morning, she knew, the memory bubbling up in her head-

\----

     -They were still abed, savouring the slow morning. Ostensibly, she was studying her spells for the day. The truth of it was that she was curled up against her husband's shoulder, enjoying the chance to laze about.  Simó had his arm around her, idly tracing the lines of the her tattoo. Glancing over to him, she saw the faraway look in his eyes that meant he was composing, arranging notes and melodies in his mind before he'd ever try them aloud. Glancing from him to the calligraphy in her spellbook, Garwhal let her eyes slip closed, just for while. They'd get up later.

\----

     Prudència was inconsolable, and Garwhal knew she needed to try to find words to say, but the phantom memory of Simó’s fingers on her arm, his side warm and solid against her back, threatened to swallow her up.

     She let it, closing her eyes to better conjure the memory, the buttery gold light, the shriek of the parrot’s across the courtyard, the burble of the influvium, the distant roar of the sea and Simó. She could recall the exact feeling of his fingers tracing the lines of ink on her arm, but not the route they'd taken, only that he hadn't paused or avoided the withering along her wrist, because he never did. Everything had smelled like sunshine and early morning, and Simó had been warmer than the air around them, so there'd been a convenient excuse to cuddle into his side. Not that she needed one- she never did, with Simó. He'd found it perfectly sensible to be close to someone simply because one _wanted_ to be close to them. To feel their skin, share their breath.

     His skin had been cooling when they pulled him from the water, the corona of his life flickering and fading. The intrusion into her memory startled her back to the present, eyes flying open. Prudència was looking at her, eyes bleary with tears but with the same focused intent that she had when casting.

     “What is it?” Garwhal asked, meeting her gaze, and the feeling the weight of it like a net. She could smell salt brine, too far from the sea, and felt a frisson of muted worry. The salt brine was Prudència dancing on the edge of control, the darkest aspects of the sea reaching for her. If she was so far gone into her grief-

     Well, Garwhal couldn't blame her. The ice had been thick, around her and Simó, by the time she'd allowed them to move them both inside.

     “Where is he?” Prudència was quiet, but her voice was sure.

      “I- with Valkur, I think.” It wasn't a subject that they'd often discussed, Garwhal afraid of his answer and of letting her patron too close to him. Valkur would take him, even as a poor sailor, generations of Rieras vouching for him, to say nothing of his kindness, his music, his bravery.  It was another mark on the wrongness of his absence. When she died, she would enter Nerull's  service, and she didn't know how Valkur felt about visitors.

     “No, where is he? The _Riera_?” Prudència’s voice had the edge of fervour, and an unseasonal humidity hung heavy in the room, thickening the salt brine. It took Garwhal a moment, her thoughts made sluggish by exhaustion and grief, and then the realisation struck like a thunderclap.

     The Riera part of his soul would return to Lleida, would stand in concert with his ancestors, providing advice and counsel to those who remained.  It was something unique to the islands, the web of blood and magic binding them to their kin. Prudència, the youngest and most attuned _bruixe_ in generations, could tell you down to the moment, when another spirit joined their ranks. It took less than a night, on the whole, the call of blood too strong to resist.

      “He’s not here?” She asked, looking around the room as though she expected, impossibly, to see some shade of Simó.  Prudència had something of a snarl curling her lips as she answered.

      “No! He's not!” Red-eyed and bedraggled as she was, the effect was fearsome. Garwhal, seized by possibility, couldn't comprehend it.

      A hollow, burning hope had kindled in her chest, licking at her ribs and scorching her lungs with possibility. She took a deep breath, let it out shakily, and looked intently at Prudència.

     “How late is he? What's the longest period for someone who died on the island to -ah- arrive? Are there prior accounts of anything similar happening?” The words, which had seemed insurmountable with Cecilia, were tripping over themselves now, in the hurry to get out. Prudència reared back as though Garwhal had slapped her.

      “How _dare_ -” she started, and then rage mingled with the horror on her face, “- did you do this?!” The question made horrified guilt bloom up in her, a swell that threatened the hope in her chest.

      “No! I just-” She heard her voice break, but forced the horrible truth out,  “I couldn't save him, alright?” Prudència lips drew back in a snarl, almost lupine, at that.

      “I tired- I tried everything!” Humiliatingly, now Garwhal could feel the tears gathering in her eyes, as she stood. It hadn't been enough, no matter what she'd tried, not even the wish that had thrown her magic into disarray.

      "I couldn't- so if there's _anything_ I could do to keep him-"

      “He's gone now. He's- did you take him?” Prudència's voice raised to a hoarse yell, as the thought bloomed to being on her face.  Garwhal felt her own ire raise to match her, borrowing from the well of rage that Simó had been taken.

      “No. I didn't.” She snarled, “I couldn't take him from _Il Riera_ , even when I wanted to!” she spat the surname like a curse, all the hurt of old arguments, first with Mercedes and then with Simó flaring up.

      “You wanted to?” Prudència sounded like this was as bad as actually doing it. Garwhal let the words out, and it felt like lancing a pustule, to _finally_ say it aloud.

      “Of course I did! I wanted to take him from the people who made him feel _lesser_ for not being a godsdamned sailor! I wanted to take him from people who'd chain him to his blood without recognizing _him_!” Garwhal had to pause, to take a breath and wipe her eyes, dashing her withered hand against her face.

      “I wanted him to know your family’s love was his right, not something he had to feel _grateful_ for. That it was his, even without your cherished gifts!” Prudència couldn't rear back any farther, but Garwhal could see condensation seeping to the top of the desk, blotting the ink of whatever trivial notes she'd been working on before Simó had died. The water rose, and then spidered into frost as her control frayed to match Prudència’s.

      “You doubt that we loved him? Then, _xarnega,_  you know nothing about love!” Prudència’s voice rose sharply, and then dropped to a vicious quiet. Garwhal flinched, the barb striking true,  burrowing under her skin and twisting.

      “For too long,” Garwhal said, matching Prudència’s tone, “I listened to _my_ husband follow the phrase ‘they love me’ with ‘despite’!” It was suddenly more important than ever to claim him, to assert that he had been hers, and that they'd chosen each other. Even if she was _xarnega_ , wasn't really part of their family, if she'd been a oddity, barely tolerated for the sake of the Riera’s landlocked son, they'd chosen each other and that mattered.

      “I loved him! Mercedes loved him! We couldn't help but love-”

      “Then _why_ have you all given up on him?” Garwhal asked, voice rising to a cracking yell.

      “We haven't! He's gone- really gone and.” Prudència snapped back, choking on her words, “-he's not here!”

      “You have! You just - _accepted_ it!” Garwhal task a deep breath, the words shaking her as she spat them out. Prudència froze, as still as Simó, for just a moment.

      “He's dead, Magus.” She spat, words like stones, “he's dead, and all that's left is for his animus to come _home._ ” Garwhal spun on her heel, unable to look at the acceptance on Prudència’s face. She paced the room, Simó’s guitars wobbling in her vision, and their bed blurred out.

      “Prudència, you know what we are and what we can do.” Garwhal could feel resolution, cold and certain, settling upon her. It was almost comforting.

      “So, weep like a child all you want. I'm getting him back.” She snarled, and headed for the door, slamming it behind her, and leaving a tracery of frost growing out from where her hand had gripped it.

       Garwhal stormed through the halls, letting anger buoy her along. That Prudència, of all the Rieras, would abandon Simó to death so easily burned, would misinterpret a positive sign so cruelly, left her shaking. It didn't matter- none of it did, because where they were determined to see more grief, she was clear eyed enough to see the truth.

      His lack of appearance meant something had gone off-track. Not necessarily wrong or dangerous, but that the standard system wasn't in place, for whatever reason. Which meant he hadn't passed over, not truly, and she could get him back.

      She waited for the second-guess to come, for her to amend her own thoughts with the notion that she could try, at least. It didn't come- it was a certainty. She would reunite with her husband, one way or another.

      “Mercedes!” Garwhal heard herself bark, as she stormed past Mercedes’ room. It was  an utterly cruel tone to take with a grieving sibling, and she didn't care. She didn't stop as she walked, trusting Mercedes would follow her. She kept moving through the warm, quiet halls of Villa Riera, until she stood in the room where Simó lay, Mercedes a step behind her.

      She didn't want to look at Simó, but couldn't _not_ look at him. So she looked, obeying the full body tug that drew her to him. Her eyes followed the quiet lines of his face, the unmoving hands and the stillness of his chest, spellburnt raw. It wasn't him, not yet, but she would see him inhabit his form once more, would see movement and life and _Simó_ again. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Mercedes.

      “I need you to keep him from being interred.” Garwhal told Mercedes. She took the request well, looking from her brother to Garwhal, jaw tense. After a moment, she looked briefly at Garwhal, fixing her in place with red-rimmed eyes, before looking back to her brother.

      “What are you going to do?” She asked, voice hoarse. She didn't look like she was worried, didn't look like she thought Garwhal was lost to grief. Her shoulders were set, tense, and she reached out, the motion jerky with cut off instinct, to brush at the sand and salt where it had dried in Simó’s hair.

      “I'm going to bring him back.” Or join him in the attempt, Garwhal thought, but didn't say. Mercedes would hear it anyways. She looked wary of Garwhal’s declaration, but not wary enough to stop her. Mercedes had lost one brother already, couldn't balk at anything that might return another.

      Mercedes took a deep breath, withdrew her fingers’ from Simó’s hair. She nodded once at Garwhal, and then shifted, resting her hip against the side of the table, eyes on the door.

      The relief was physical, some of the tension releasing in Garwhal’s shoulders and upper arms.

      “Thank you.” She breathed, the words woefully inadequate. Of course she could trust Mercedes, her best friend, her sister. Mercedes would trust her too, had seen enough of the world to trust her even beyond the bounds of Lafenese propriety.

      The plan was loose, ill-formed in her mind, but sharpening, like drawing close to a map. If he wasn't where he was meant to be, than someone had to fetch him, and bring him to where he should be.

      Which was in the realm of the living, by her side, warm and real.

      “How long do you need?” Mercedes asked, and Garwhal considered it.

      “Seven days. Any longer, and…” she trailed off. Any longer and neither would return.

      “Take eight, for luck.” Mercedes said, a smile without joy or humour on her face. Garwhal nodded.

     “I'm just- spell components.” Garwhal said, turning for the door. Mercedes nodded, turning back to Simó as she went.

      Packing was easy- she didn't need much- her spellbook already hung from her belt, her component’s bag was stocked and Usher was staying in Clara Valis, with her mother.  But she wanted her options, wanted her scythe and wands, the little alchemical vials that Simó filed away when she began to leave them strewn about their rooms.

      Wanted to run her fingers over the edges of Simó’s guitar, touch the neat folios of music he composed and compiled. See the sketch of them in their wedding finery, that ridiculous afternoon where they'd stood as still as two giddy newlyweds could for the Isterian painter Caterina had commissioned. To take stock of the life she was bringing Simó back to.

      She didn't, though. She knew what she was bringing Simó back to: back to her, back to his family, back to a world that was dimmer for his absence.

      She returned to Mercedes and Simó’s body quickly, the little room silent save for Mercedes’ breathing, and the tap of her fingers on her sword hilt.

      “Will you say sorry to Prudència for me?” Garwhal asked, the thought running out of her mouth as soon as she'd had it.

     “We argued and I was- augh- horrible.” She had been, she knew, shouting at a grieving student- a grieving family member. Prudència deserved better. Mercedes sighed, sounded as weary as Cecilía when she did.

      “In nine days, if I have to.” She said, and then, “do you want company? I can set Raül and Gen to watch him.” She tilted a hand towards Simó, but her gaze was steady on Garwhal.

      It was a nice idea, to tackle a problem with Mercedes, just as they'd done so many times before, but-

      “I _trust_ you.” Garwhal said, to temporarily defy the Rieras, to trust that I'm not sorrow-mad and embarking on a fool’s errand. That got a smile, small and edged with her own grief, and a nod. Garwhal reached forward, grabbing Mercedes in a hug. Mercedes returned it, just as fiercely, and Garwhal leaned into it.

      Releasing Mercedes, Garwhal leaned down over Simó’s body, resting a hand on his shoulder, and kissed him gently. She realized as she did, that it was a poor copy of what she'd done when she'd woken up before him, and had been reluctant to leave him. She was always reluctant to leave him.

      She rested her forehead against Simó’s for a moment, and then stood back. She nodded at Mercedes, and spoke, the draconic twining around her tongue.

       Disappearing in a crack, she reappeared on the banks of the River.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A million years later, I get around to finishing a chapter.  
> Also, Garwhal begins her journey, and makes a deal.

     The air was damp and tasted of earth, while the sound of water filled her ears, when Garwhal appeared on the banks of the River. It was a silver ribbon of liminal space between life and death. Garwhal had never been so close to this particular crossing, a deep cavern in the mountains between Calmeria and Linz. The cavern was too large for the mountains above it, and the river was far, far too wide.

     There was something almost peaceful about the place, and across the River, Garwhal could see a great forest of silvery trees, branches feathering into darkness.

     Watching the rippling water, Garwhal sat herself down on the grey-green grass spreading up from the river bank. The water flickered occasionally with unlife, but there was nothing visible on the banks. Even so, Garwhal wasn't in a position to risk herself; she needed to stay alive long enough to get Simó home.

     Turning in a slow circle, she gestured as she did. The alarm spell settled into the air around her, a slight, comforting weight on her skin. Simó had always said her magic was gentle on his skin, and it hadn’t surprised her. How could her magic do anything but love him?

     His, when he’d started to cast, had been soft to her, a breath of a breeze, kind and catching her attention from wherever she was.

     It was nice, to remember the way his music brushed along her skin, but not enough to lull her to sleep. She was exhausted, the sort of tired that dragged under your skin and kept you from sleeping. Even if she’d been spoiled those past years by Simó’s presence, she had experience of forcing herself to sleep.  

     Slumping to the ground, she scrubbed her hands over her face, scraping at the hollows of her eyes. It didn't matter- she would not go into the underworld without her spells at the ready. Simó needed her prepared, and she would not fail him.

     Sleep was unpleasant, alternating between fitful and heavy with her own memories. But it came, and stayed long enough to provide her with some clarity of thought upon waking.

     Her yawn cracked her jaw, as she pulled her spellbook from where it had been serving as her pillow. Hauling herself upright, she balanced her book on her knees, and prepared to get to work.

     There was someone looking at her. Garwhal froze, spellbook’s cover half-opened. A grey shadow disappeared from the River bank, back into the water, with an undignified splash. Garwhal didn't get a good look at the creature, but caught enough to know it wasn't alive. It had the same dark radiance that Nerull’s messengers did, dead without ever having been alive.

     Not one of Nerull’s though. They weren't so shy with her.

     Swallowing her surprised curse down, Garwhal looked to the water, closing her spellbook on her lap.

     “Hello?” She called, “I think we startled each other.” Her voice had a croak to it, and she couldn't muster any friendly curiosity. But she sounded solemn and non threatening, which would have to do.

     It garnered no answer, and Garwhal decided to return to her spellbook. She didn't have time to waste on river oddities.

    “We did!” A voice trilled up from the riverbank, just as Garwhal was letting the lines of text sink into her mind, fingers tracing over the eddies of ink on the page.

     This time, the creature didn't flee when Garwhal looked up. Humanoid, the same grey as the water, with long, waterlogged tendrils of hair and a faint glow.

    “Hello.” Garwhal said, again. Her eyes were similar to her own, Garwhal realized, ink-black from lid to lid. She hadn't settled too close to the river, but even at a distance she could see the row of sharp teeth that the creature’s smile revealed, as she hauled herself up onto the riverbank.

    “Hello!” She responded, in an odd, singsong voice with an inhuman trill to it.

     “I'm Tracheobel!” She introduced herself, standing up, and coming over to where Garwhal sat, walking with a wobbly, awkward gait that suggested she was more comfortable in the water. Or perhaps just that the drenched, overlong folds of her mottled grey silk robe were tripping her.

    “I'm Garwhal, -” Garwhal started, only to get cut off by the flap of a delicate, webbed hand.

    “I _know_ ,” She said, “the Venator Mortis, at my riverbend!” She sounded delighted, even through the slight lisp her teeth gave her.

     Garwhal wasn't sure what to say to that, her title another weight on her shoulders, miniscule next to Simó’s absence.  

     “I'm not- I’m not here as the Venator Mortis.” She said, and Tracheobel’s eyes widened in with fascination.

     “Really? Why, then?” She asked, pausing right outside the alarm spell. This close, Garwhal realised that her glow was bioluminescent, emanating from little nodes at the ends of her hair and fingers.

     “Can I come in?” She asked, one hand raised, as if to knock on the invisible aura separating them. Garwhal looked at her, and shrugged.

     “No.” A moue of hurt pursed Tracheobel’s lips, and her hand dropped.

     “Why not?” There was definitely a hint of a whine to her voice, and Garwhal was reminded suddenly and strongly of Cal, Raül and Genoveva’s youngest, whenever he was told he couldn't yet do something.

     “I don't know who you serve, or what you are.” And I can't risk myself yet, Garwhal didn't say, not until Simó’s safe.

     “Oh! Well, I'm a naiad, in the Ferryman’s service. This is _my_ stretch of the River!” She tossed her hand behind her, gesturing at the River, the high ceiling of the cavern, the rushes on the banks and the trees on the far side.

     “I took over from Great Arteria, who was old and wise and _mean_.” Tracheobel explained, voice dropping to a whisper on the last, in a shared secret. In another time, Garwhal knew she'd be charmed by Tracheobel’s enthusiasm and straightforwardness, that she’d want to bring her students to meet her. Forty eight hours ago, even. But all Tracheobel’s cheery chattiness just made her want to turn to Simó, to share in the delight of meeting her, which dropped the bottom out of her heart. Simó was gone, snatched by some impudent death.

     Garwhal closed her eyes, breathed around the hurt, and let the spell lapse, gesturing to the ground next to her. With a beaming smile, Tracheobel flopped down onto the ground next to her, robe squelching around her.

     “Thanks! Sooooo, why're you here? If not to be Venator Mortis?” She asked, and when Garwhal didn't answer immediately, started carefully picking strings of algae out of the tarnished silver bracelet she wore.

     “I-” Garwhal stopped. She'd been able to say Simó was dead to his family. It had felt like a stab wound each time, but she could get the words out. Telling a stranger seemed harder.

     “I have to bring someone back.” She said, resolutely getting the words out. Tracheobel’s dark eyes widened, and she abandoned her bracelet, focus switching entirely to her.

     “Really?!” She asked, “like a quest? A hero’s quest?” She looked a moment from clapping her hands in delight. Distantly, Garwhal wondered how old she was, how a creature like her aged, if she even did, considering how dead Tracheobel was to her sight.

     “Not really.” Garwhal said. It wasn't. A quest was something you were called to, a duty taken on because it was just or righteous. This was a just and righteous endeavor, but she wasn't doing it because it was right. The world without Simó in it was unconscionable, and it was better to throw herself into every single desperate scheme to bring him back than face it. Tracheobel ‘hm’ed in response, looking at her very carefully.

     “Is it love?” She asked, head tilting to further examine her. Garwhal felt herself still completely. Mercedes had teased her, all good-hearted, long-suffering sighs, over how obviously gone she was on Simó, but it seemed surprising that this creature could tell so immediately.  Like there was something writ clear on her face, some marker of love.   

     “It is!!” Tracheobel’s joy was so great that there was an additional treble in her trilling voice.

     “Oh, what's it like?” Garwhal found herself leaning away from the onslaught of enthusiasm being directed at her.

     “I- well. You'd know.” Garwhal said, unable to keep a bitter snap from her voice. It was a given, that she loved Simó, but to be asked to verbalise it, when he was caught somewhere on the other side of that River, seemed impossibly cruel. Especially considering Tracheobel’s bright eyes and honest joy, both things that made love come so easy. Joy was so easy to love, she knew, thinking of Simó’s music, the expression on his face when he got it sounding just as he wanted it.

     “Nah, we’re not designed that way.” Tracheobel sounded wistful, the pout slipping back into her face. Garwhal wondered who'd told Tracheobel that, if believing you couldn't love was that different from believing you were unloveable.

     Or, Garwhal thought, it was possible, that whoever had breathed life into this branch of naiads had simply cut that part of their soul away, leaving it on the floor of some cosmic workshop.

     She was of two minds about that. She could imagine how much lighter she'd feel if she'd never loved Simó, that she wouldn't need to be here on the banks of death, and dragging the unbearable weight of his absence along with her. The deeper, truer thought, was that it would be indescribably cruel to do such a thing to anyone, no matter what their purpose. Garwhal heard herself ‘hm’ in response, unsure of what to say. Tracheobel shrugged, and resettled herself, returning once more to the algae caught in her bracelet.

     “I have an idea.” Tracheobel said, after a long pause. Garwhal watched the sharp-toothed, hopeful smile grow on her face with a dull worry. There was something hungry in the expression, though she doubted Tracheobel’s idea was ‘eat the Venator Mortis’.

     If it was, she could kill Tracheobel first. So she ‘hmm’ed again, this time to continue.

     “Tell me about it- about love- and I’ll get you safe across the river!” She said, glee seeping back into her voice.

     Garwhal started to refuse, to snap out something sharp-edged to end the conversation. Then she stopped. Teleporting across the river would be difficult, the shift from the liminal space of the riverbank to the Land of the Dead, would only be complicated by the planar changes between them.

     She would cut out her own heart for Simó, if he needed it. The thought of talking about love right now felt like having her skin peeled back, to expose the cage of her ribs.  But she knew what that felt like, and safe passage across the river would be worth it.

     “You get one question. ” She said, swallowing, “ _After_ I’m across the River.”

     She wondered what Simó would say. He was the eloquent one, who could unknot a tangle of emotions into a few lines that perfectly described them. Not to mention there was generally a rhyming scheme, a matching piece of music, and, if he was really trying to impress her, a play on words.

     But Simó wasn't here, and it was her responsibility to get him back, so she'd have to figure something out.

     Tracheobel was considering the offer, face scrunched in thought. The expression showed her teeth, making it seem far more ominous than it was.

     “Hmm...no sugar-coating or monosyllables? You’ll give a real answer?”  She tried, the wheedling tone back. Garwhal felt her lips twitch, and didn’t know if she wanted to smile at Tracheobel’s tone or bare  her teeth. She'd kept Simó’s name from the dead, as long as she'd could. Nerull had known it, because Simó was only ever mortal, but she’d kept his name sacred, as spared from death as possible.

     It was useless, but the habit remained. As friendly as Tracheobel was, as much as Garwhal felt she was trustworthy, she was dead,and had all its dangers. Her teeth were sharp, those lights on her hands and in her hair were lures, and she had all the powers of a naiad in her river. But she knew the land of the dead, and her knowledge was valuable.

     “Yeah…. _And_ any information you have on getting to Nerull’s.” Garwhal pushed. It was demanding more than Tracheobel had offered, she knew, but she’d do far worse for Simó. Tracheobel wound her sleeves around her hands, fingertips glowing dimly through the thin cloth, as she considered it.

     “Alright.” She said, after a long moment, “But no lying.” She agreed, teeth snapping on her consonants.

     “Exactly. Truth on both our sides.” Garwhal returned, and Tracheobel held out a delicate hand to shake. Her hand was cool and clammy, but not slimy. It felt almost like the skin of Raül’s familiar, Balthazar.

    “Are you sick?” Tracheobel asked, “you're warm. That's a thing, right?” Concern and interest warred on her face, and Garwhal shook her head.

     “No, just alive.” Garwhal told her. And then, because she couldn't help herself, even if her voice was a shadow,  “If I was markedly warmer than this, it could be a symptom of illness.” Tracheobel nodded sagely, filing the information away.

     “Shall we?” She asked, gesturing towards the placid river.

     “If you don't mind waiting a bit?” Garwhal pointed at her spellbook, where the scrollwork spelled out the lines of her power.

     “Fiiiiiine.” Tracheobel decided, flopping back down to a lounging position, and focusing on her bracelet. Nodding her thanks, Garwhal returned to her work.

     The spells sank into her mind, their study bringing a sort of peace to Garwhal. Though, between invisibility and transposition, she noticed her back was cold. It didn't stall her, but it sent a pang through her chest.

      When she looked up, closing her spellbook, Tracheobel was gnawing at what looked like an eel. Her robe was dripping, and Garwhal assumed she'd gone to the river for a snack while she'd waited. She'd missed bigger things while studying her spells than someone sneaking off for breakfast.  

     “Thanks.” Garwhal said, and Tracheobel tossed her head back, the motion ripping a large chunk of flesh free of the eel’s spine, before facing her.

     “Great!” Rolling into a lounging position, Tracheobel swallowed her snack, and fixed Garwhal with a stare as sharp as her teeth.

     “Shall we?” Tracheobel asked, and Garwhal voiced her agreement, unable to keep the weariness from her voice. It didn’t bother Tracheobel, who snapped up to her feet in an acrobatic twist that seemed impossible given the pounds upon pounds of sodden cloth draping her.

     “Let's go, c’mon!” Tracheobel said, wiping her free hand on her robe and extending it to Garwhal.

     Garwhal took the offered hand, and allowed Tracheobel to drag her up to her feet. As soon as she was upright, Tracheobel was off, dragging her along as she bolted for the river.  She paused only for a moment, when they were at the River’s edge, tall grey-green grass whispering at their robes, the water almost mesmerizing before them. Garwhal took a deep breath, and nodded at Tracheobel’s look.

     Tracheobel could hardly contain her glee, and leapt the last steps into the River, pulling Garwhal along, who followed in an ungainly lunge, trying to keep her footing.

     Rather than sloping down, shallow and then deep, the River dropped into an eternity as soon as you left the bank. Lurched forward, Garwhal was utterly submerged.

     Her first sensation was _cold_. It was the cold that drove air from lungs and thought from mind, the all-encompassing chill of mortality. Neither her knowledge of it, nor how often she turned it against her enemies provided any shield. In the chill, her first instinct was to gasp, but she clamped her jaw shut, and gripped Tracheobel’s hand harder in numbing fingers.

   The rest of her was rapidly following her fingers, the numbness seeping up from her extremities with a speed that would have been unnatural anywhere else. It was almost welcome, being too cold to think, so cold that the sorrow permeating her was frozen, far off and muted. Opening her eyes, she looked around, expecting to see the murky grey of the surface surrounding her.

    It was still grey, but in the vastness of the River, it was anything but murky. There were lights, scattered throughout the water, wan and drifting in the slow, inexorable current, distorted by the ripples in the water itself. Tracheobel was in front of her, and in the water, it looked less like she wore a robe, and more like she had a long, finned tail of mottled grey.  

     She couldn't see either shore, and if the River had a bottom - or a surface, - it was far, far away.

     The expanse and the chill were lulling, almost soporific, and Garwhal felt herself slipping. Half-hypnotised by the distant forms of river-creatures and the press of the current, everything seemed distant as the sun, which she supposed still existed, above the endless waters of the River and the Linzian mountains encasing it and the clouds above it.

     The temptation to sigh in relief, all her weights washed from her by the water, was overpowering. Everything that might have mattered seemed unreal in the cold press of the water. She knew she shouldn't sigh, not underwater, without a clear knowledge of when she'd surface next, some of the basics of swimming she'd learned in other waters-

 

* * *

 

     The sun beat down on them,  sparkling on the water, and Garwhal knew the afternoon would leave her sunburnt. She didn't much care: she was an hour’s walk from Villa Riera, on a reef-sheltered cove too small to be any use for the Riera’s work, and the only other person in sight was Simó Riera.  
  
     It was still new between them, still tender as a fresh scar. And everyone was so _happy_ for them. It was new and strange, to be with someone in full view of their family, with their loudly enthusiastic blessings. It was wonderful, and she adored the Rieras, but she'd never felt the impact of just how many of them there were before. It was, she suspected, because there was one Riera in particular she wanted to spend time with.  
  
     "Mercedes says you know the basics?" Simó asked, resurfacing from his dive under the water.  Garwhal leaned back, letting the water support her, and 'hmm'ed in agreement. She hadn't drowned yet. For a Clara Vallan who wasn't in the navy, she was an incredibly competent swimmer. It also meant that she was easily outswum by  Riera toddlers, and Mercedes had helpfully suggested that Simó give her a few pointers. 

     Gods bless Mercedes, Garwhal thought fervently, incipient sunburn the last thing on her mind. The sun was pouring down on Simó, gilding him like something from on of Daia's ridiculous novels.  He was almost hard to look at, all golden and smiling. But he was smiling at her, which made it impossible to look away.

     It was impossible not to smile back, to bask in his attention like it was the sun.

     "So..." he said, flopping back into the water next to her, "we could try treading water?" He sounded distractible. Garwhal stretched her arm out, almost overbalancing herself to reach him. His skin was sun-warm, alive, and becoming a better swimmer was the last thing on her mind.   

     "You know, I think this is the first time we've been alone all week." Garwhal said, tugging him closer to her. Or her closer to him. Bobbing in the water as they were, she wasn't quite sure which one of them was moving, only that they were closer together.

     "We're not even halfway through Wednesday." Simó said, but she could hear his smile, and he laced their fingers together.

     "It’s been a long three days” she told him, “and...it’s nice, being just with you." Garwhal said, unable to stop the heat crawling up her neck as the words slipped out.  Between the glare of the sun and yesterday's sunburn, she hoped it'd hide her flush. Just saying it felt stupid, words stilted. ‘Nice’ was an utter understatement, and was far from doing Simó justice. She wished, absently, for his eloquence,  the way he could spin it all into poetry.

     But he deserved those words, rough as she might make them.

     "Really?" He asked, and she could still hear that smile. When she bumped into his shoulder, he wrapped his arm around her, and Garwhal recaptured his hand, luxuriating in the sun and the  water and Simó’s presence.

     "Yeah." That was easier to say, even as he dripped water onto her head, and she pulled their joined hands up to press a kiss to his knuckles. Sappy, but true.

     "Me too." He said, and the honesty in his voice was enough to chase any further words from Garwhal. They weren't necessary, Garwhal thought, and breathed them out as she leaned against him. Simó nudged closer, pressing his smile against her neck to chase the taste of saltwater down her skin.

 

* * *

       -They had been different waters, warm and shallow and _alive_. But the memory of it was in her veins, bright as the sun catching on the wave. It didn't burn the cold away, or even push back against it, too small against the greatness of the River. But it was enough for her, and it made the cold something she had to endure. It reminded her that there was more than the cold, and she had gladly and freely given her fealty to it.

     She focused on Tracheobel, a twisting form unbothered by the chill or the weight of the water upon them. She was moving incredibly fast, a predator in her natural habitat, and the current buffeted Garwhal as they went. Numb as she was, Garwhal was grateful for the white knuckled grip they had on each other’s hands.

     She couldn't say for certain how long it took them to cross the river, only that she spent a long time certain she couldn’t hold her breath any longer.  Her lungs burnt without warmth in her chest, heartbeat booming in her ears, and she hung on with dogged determination. But finally, _finally_ , Tracheobel swung upwards, and Garwhal was kneeling in the muddy reeds on the other side of the River, coughing and gasping.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garwhal pays up, Tracheobel is nosy.

            Crouched on the Riverbank, Garwhal gulped in breath after shuddering breath, the sound loud and ugly in the silence. Out of the water, the cold refused to dissipate, and she was starting to shiver. She clenched her fists, almost convulsively, trapping slate-grey mud and silvery reeds between her fingers, and pushed herself forward, further into death.

            Tracheobel had no such difficulties, and she paced the short stretch of riverbank, going to the treeline and back again, keeping Garwhal’s path to the trees blocked the whole time. Clever, but unnecessary, Garwhal thought, considering the challenge that standing was presenting.

            It was a greater  effort than it should have been, her legs reluctant to support her weight.  Swaying upright, she gasped as the chill air cut through her sodden robes and left her almost as cold as she’d been in the water.

            In the midst of her shiver, she flicked her fingers out, prestidigitation rippling through her, and leaving her robes dry and warm as though they’d been out all afternoon in Lleidan sunshine. Sighing with relief, and tugging her cloak close about her, she made her way over to Tracheobel.

            Their deal lay heavy between them, and there was a hunger in Tracheobel’s face as she approached that reminded Garwhal of the naiad’s rows of teeth, the lures at her fingertips and in her hair.

            “Your question?” she asked, bracing herself. Gods knew what Tracheobel might want to know, and Garwhal prepared herself to lie, if necessary. She would keep Simó’s secrets, as she had in life, and would return him to life with them unspoken. Tracheobel fisted her hands in her robe’s sleeves, thinking carefully.

            After a long moment, Tracheobel’s hands unwound from her sleeves, and she nodded, more to herself than to Garwhal. Than, she fixed her eyes on Garwhal, that mortal brightness sneaking onto her face once more.

            “Your first kiss! Like, did you know right away? Were their bells or is that just a meta-phor? Is it different when it’s _true love_ and when it’s just fun?” Tracheobel asked, trilling her words, and clasping her hands together in her excitement.

            Garwhal hadn’t quite known what to expect from Tracheobel’s request, but it hadn’t been this. Agog, she stared at Tracheobel for a moment, completely at a loss as to what she might say. That Simó always tasted of tannins, just a little, or that she might, laughably, try to explain the way his hand could curve just so around her skull? Horribly, she felt her eyes welling up, supply of tears apparently replenished.

            “Oh no!” Tracheobel’s distress was tangible, and she grabbed Garwhal’s cold hands with her own, colder ones, “I thought first kisses were happy!”

            Without thinking, Garwhal pulled her hands free. She caught herself before covering her face, her unwillingness to let others see her distress a prideful remnant of her youth. Instead, she cradled her temples for a moment, before she let them rest at her sides. Hidden by her cloak, she rotated her wedding ring around her finger, until she could press the meat of her thumb against the jaws of the little golden snake, and took a deep breath.

            “It was. Very much so. Just. He tells the story better than me.” She said, even managing a false smile for Tracheobel. She let her breath out slowly, like she was about to cast a spell, thumb still pressed against the snake on her ring.

            “I, ah. I’d known him for a while before anything happened,” She started.

            “You didn’t just look at them and _know_?” Tracheobel interrupted, sounding disappointed.

            “No. No. I mean, I _liked_ looking, but it didn’t happen all at once.” Garwhal said, “But it took a lot for us- for me- to get together. There was a lot going on, but…”

 

* * *

 

 

            Garwhal was still a little fuzzy. Which was a kindness, in that it kept her from being consumed by the utter humiliation of the failed date. Passing out in front of Simó halfway through chatting about magical music was not what she'd been hoping for when she'd finally scraped the courage together to ask if he'd like to do something together. He’d, she remembered with a fresh swell of mortification, had to _carry her_ to Adría’s, a nearby relative of his mother's (some arcane denomination of cousin, she thought). 

            Adría had been kind enough to lend her clothes, a light shirt and skirt far better for the Lleidan climate than the heavy, long-sleeved robe she'd chosen that  morning. She'd been so kind, but she'd pursed her lips at Garwhal over the small meal the three of them had shared. She hadn't said anything, but she'd looked. Garwhal had felt the skitter of Adría's eyes along her scars, the ugly striations cut into her tattoo and the ragged lines where her flesh had been wrenched back together post-mortem. As unsuitable as her robes had been for the climate, they suited her, and they’d hidden them. She'd tried to avoid looking at Simó, afraid of what he might think, what might be on his face. Mercedes, she assumed, had told him some things, but hearing about their travels and seeing their remnants were entirely different animals.  

            "Now, it's cool enough to head back- say hello to your mother, Simó, and you can bring those clothes back when you have a moment, alright?" Adría said at the door of her home, in a rush of Lafenese almost too fast for Garwhal to follow. 

            "Si, grazie." Garwhal said, the syllables feeling clumsy in her mouth. Simó nodded, along, echoing her thanks, and ushered the two of them out the door.

            Once they were put, Simó sighed heavily, and turned to her with a wry smile. 

            "Adría is ah...a gossip," he told her, "the island will know by the end of the week." Garwhal let her head dip, fingers tightening ineffectually on her folded robe. She breathed out, trying to expel her frustrations at how she'd screwed up. Simó didn't seem to think she'd screwed up. He'd stayed to make sure she was alright, had been there with water and honest worry on his face when she'd woken up. She didn't know if it was an accurate assessment, or if how badly she wanted this, with Simó, was colouring it. 

            "Ugh, Mercedes' never gonna let me hear the end of this." She muttered, aiming at lighthearted.  Simó chuckled at her, and Garwhal glanced over to him. He was still smiling, the dusk shadowing the corners of his mouth, handsome enough to catch her breath, and his dark eyes looked very warm. It chased everything but the hope from her, letting it resettle in her bones like a bird coming to roost, and she found herself starting to smile back. 

            "True." He agreed, and then, offered her his arm, as courtly as a hero in a New Year's pageant. It was so picture perfect that she had to bite back a giggle at how incongruous it felt. She tended to barrel, gore-splattered and yelling, from one disaster to the next, except, apparently, here, where the eldest son of a respectable family was offering her his arm to walk them back, even after she'd passed out from the heat in front of him.  Stepping to the side, she rested her living hand in the crook of his arm. Resisted the urge to flex her hand, just to relish in the feeling of him under her fingers. 

            "Thanks." 

            "You're sure you are alright?" He asked, looking over her carefully, and then, hopefully, "it's early yet."

             I'd keep you out all night, if you'd let me, Garwhal thought, the certainty of it startling her. It was alright, she told herself, Simó was kind, and an excellent correspondent, and so handsome it made her wish she was an artist. What self-respecting sort wouldn't want to keep him as long as he'd let them? 

            "Prudència imposed a curfew." She admitted, which was enough to change Simó's smile to a laugh, arms drawing close to his ribs as he did. 

            "Of course - what does she have planned?" He asked, as they started to head down the beach. 

            "She wants to compare magical readings in the catacombs to her senses." Garwhal couldn't help her own smile, "it's gonna be neat- um, the bruixes occupy this liminal space between caster and cleric, so the comparison might provide a further understanding of where the divisions are."  Prudència was brilliant, and Garwhal enjoyed indulging that whenever she had the chance, but the study Prudència had proposed had merit beyond that.

            They chatted about that for a while,  with Simó sharing a truly funny story about getting stuck ('not lost, _stuck_ ') in the family catacombs when he'd been younger. Which meant she'd had to try and top that with a story about Copper Street that had left Simó wheezing with laughter. It was a wonderful sound all on its own, but when he laughed like that while a person had their hand in his arm, he leaned into them, close enough to rest his head against hers. 

            Garwhal found that she'd be willing to share any other stories he might find amusing for that laugh. Her worries felt far away- for all that they might return as soon as they parted, they were drowned out by the simple joy of being out walking with him.  The evening was deep enough that the scars on her arms were less stark, even on display as they were in the short sleeves of Adría's old blouse, and Garwhal was less aware about them than she had been that morning. Simó had laughed- truly and long- at her memory of trying to buy finger bones for the first time, to say nothing of their letters. For once, there didn't seem to be any harm in assuming that he wasn't horrified by her. 

            She was surprised at how far they'd gotten from Villa Riera before the heat and her heavy over-robe had taken her out. They'd been walking- meandering, really- for a little more than an hour before the scent of the villa's almond orchard touched the breeze. She still had her hand resting on Simó's arm, because she'd had no cause to remove it.

            It had gone from evening to true night as they'd walked, the sky darkening to a star-studded indigo. It was barely worth noticing, except for how Simó leaned closer to her to trace the mast of Valkur’s Ship in the sky. It used the same stars as the Magus’ Staff, but the boat sailed towards the horizon, while the Magus stood looking towards the night.

            Simó stumbled on the uneven sand, jostling them both as his shoulder knocked hers. He started to apologise, and Garwhal started to wave the apology away, but it was too dark to see the movement.

            “I should have borrowed a lantern.” Simó said ruefully, a sheepish shadow in the evening. Garwhal felt her hopes bolstered by a particular pride. It was warm in her skin, not from the heatstroke or even from Simó’s presence, but by that this was something she knew, that her knowledge would fix.

            “Allow me?” She asked, leaning close and holding her hand up between them. Simó was a solid presence against her shoulder. She could feel it as he looked over to her, and couldn’t help the smile blooming on her face. Her bad habit of falling out of her own body seemed utterly impossible now. Between her own happiness, the magic in her skin and Simó, she was entirely anchored, couldn’t imagine anything calling her from her skin. She was aware of her blood in her veins, pushed along by the thud of her heart, kept fresh and fast by the air in her lungs, an imperfect system allowing a wonder like an evening walk with someone she wanted to take place.

            Her palm flat out between them, she murmured in Draconic, and Simó bent closer to catch her words. Showing off, she drew the spell out, letting the magic burn into light slowly. It caught in her blood, setting a golden glow crawling up the veins of her arm. As the glow passed her venuous arch, it was bright through her skin, pooling between her cephalic and basilic veins and seeping up out of her skin.

            At first, it was just a puddle of yellow-white light, a lantern’s glow made liquid, casting Simó in amber. Then, the spell finished, and globes of light dripped off her outstretched palm as the light faded from her veins. The lights bobbed gently around them, ambling into an imperfect circle around the two of them.  Simó was watching the lights, and when she looked at him, he looked back at her. His smile was bright, almost wondering, and Garwhal could feel her own, answering joy.

            “Better?” She asked, gesturing to the light. Several of the globes bobbed, as though caught in the wake of her movement. It was maybe a little arrogant, but there was a delight on his face and the knowledge that she'd put it there was rich as cream.

            “Wonderful.” He said, looking from her to the lights to her again. Almost too fast to see, nervousness flashed across his face, before he leaned in, one hand moving to gently tilt her chin up, and kissed her.

            It was a careful kiss, close-mouthed, too short to be lingering and too full of promise to be chaste.

            “Alright?” His hand lingered, as he moved back. Garwhal leaned closer, like a tugged string.  There was a giggle trying to escape her, some silly, breathless sound of delight, and Garwhal pursed her lips around her smile to keep it in. She'd forgotten how aware of herself she was, just after a kiss, how alive- more than just alive, how _good-_ it felt.

            “Wonderful.” She said, her giggle escaping in the edges of the word and her grin. Simó’s smile was radiant as well, and it was too much, to have him smiling like that at her, and she leaned up to kiss him back. He met her halfway, their noses bumping in their eagerness, and then it was very close to perfect.

 

* * *

 

            Tracheobel sighed, the sound loud enough to draw Garwhal out of the memory. It was a full body motion so wistful Garwhal could almost forget how dangerous she was.

            “And _then_ you knew, right?” She asked, leaning forward, “that it was love?” Garwhal wished she could tell her yes, that at the first touch of his lips, she’d fallen deeply, truly in love, and that he’d fallen right alongside her. How to explain how nervously she’d edged towards love, taking ages to verbalize what she’d known somewhere soul-deep, because once it was real it could be lost?

            “I knew...I knew I liked him, I trusted him, and that was enough to start.”  

            Tracheobel was looking at her, and Garwhal couldn't discern the expression on her face. Couldn't tell if the information was enough for her.  Her jaw loosened, and then snapped shut once more, allowing Tracheobel to smile in a less disconcerting fashion.

            “And it became love, and love makes them worth this?” Tracheobel said, wondering, and Garwhal breathed out a long, ugly breath. She felt scraped raw, all exposed nerves and bare, beating heart as she nodded.

            The story had left her unmoored, strangely physical on this side of the River. She felt almost feverishly hot, alone in the chill of her surroundings, and didn’t know if it was because she’d never travelled thusly to Nerull’s realm, or that she was uninvited this time.

            Tracheobel looked at her for a long moment, envy and pity warring on her face, before she nodded, businesslike.

            “You're alive, so you'll attract attention. Things out of place do, here.” Tracheobel said, “They'll try to trick you, trap you, consume you, because of it.”

            “They?”

            “The disloyal subjects.” Tracheobel said in a whisper, glancing around her, as though naming them would call them forth. Garwhal suspected she knew who Tracheobel was referencing- the unquiet dead, the ones who had been unsatisfied for long enough to be reduced only to their hungers.

            “I've dealt with similar. Anything else?” She hadn't dealt exactly with who Tracheobel called the disloyal subjects before, not in their territory, but she'd dealt with their living reflections, the denizens of Nerull’s list. The ones so scared of death they’d scraped away everything but the what they needed to sustain their lives far past the breaking point. The urge to move on was growing stronger. She could feel the ghost of their first kiss on her lips, and wanted Simó back with the same simple demand that a body demanded water and air.

            “The people here- the regular ones, not the others-” Tracheobel started, than trailed off, choosing her next words carefully.

            “Their memories become a balm? They’re um, strong.” She said, with the careful diction of someone discussing something entirely alien to them. Garwhal wanted to scoff at the idea she could be kept from Simó by something as paltry as her memories. It was ridiculous, all her memories could do was spur her on.

            “It might not apply to you, though.” Tracheobel added, “‘Cause you’re alive and all.” 

             “How do I get to Nerull, from here?” Nerull’s name felt like a rung bell on her tongue.

            “Look.” Tracheobel pointed one webbed hand upwards. Garwhal followed the line of her hand, looking up past the shadows of the trees that stretched out above them. Far, far above, in the impossibly dark sky, there were stars. A stream of small, perfect pinpricks of light.

            “Start here, and follow them.” Tracheobel said, pointing to a particular star, a little larger and brighter than the surrounding, and then traced from it, to its siblings, along a crooked line.

            “The Petitioner’s Path.” She explained, “it’ll lead you there.” Garwhal nodded to Tracheobel.

            “Thank you, Tracheobel.” Garwhal said, and as haggard as she sounded, she meant it.  She turned to face the path that Tracheobel had pointed out, traced it forward.

            “Good luck, Venator Mortis!” Tracheobel trilled out, teeth bared in a friendly grin. Garwhal tried her best to smile back, and it seemed to work, because Tracheobel’s widened, and she reached out, grabbing Garwhal in a damp, gangly hug.

            “If you come back, I want to meet your person!” It wasn't a prospect that Garwhal was thrilled about, but she owed the naiad. Tracheobel, who didn't think she was capable of love, was the sort of person who'd benefit from husband’s earnest romanticism. And she'd brought her safely across the river.

            “If I can.” She agreed, to Tracheobel’s delight. Tracheobel waggled webbed fingers at her. She turned, walking back through the reeds, and dropped silently into the river water, leaving Garwhal alone on the far edge of the River.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Look, it's gonna be ok. I promise.


End file.
